


Rite de Passage

by ladyofthesilent



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007)
Genre: F/M, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set shortly after Jack has received the brand from Beckett, might be considered AU (though not necessarily). Written for the lj-potcfest prompt #23. "Jack/Tia Dalma. Just what is their past together, anyway?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite de Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Jack and Lizzie belong to each other, everything else to the mouse (Disney).
> 
> Beta: lj-user fried_flamingo
> 
> Many thanks to lj-user artaxastra , whose fic Intention inspired me to perceive Tia/Calypso as an African water spirit.

On mornings like this, she thought she remembered something. With the tiny drops of sunlight filtering through the mist, the dew sitting heavily on leaves and grass blades, the memories were almost tangible. She waited for them to settle down, preying eyes fixed on ever-changing shapes and patterns, only to find she couldn’t grasp them. She watched them slip away, silhouettes dissolving into darkness, and in the end, there was nothing left but water. It surrounded her, opaque and eerie, whispering threats and promises aimed at someone she felt she should remember.

There was power in its words, an essential, sacred nature dating back to primordial times when mankind had been just a droplet in an ocean too vast to cross. She felt that she too was part of it, inevitably drawn to the one element able to soothe the pain and the hunger, the emptiness that had claimed her heart so long ago. Yet it was torture to live in its realm, watch the trees paint its shimmering, restless surface, while she couldn’t endure her own reflection staring back at her, knowing she was standing on the wrong side of the mirror.

Those who came to her didn’t know about the maelstrom swallowing her very being. They too had been stalked and captured, victims of a beast that would never be sated; their remains had been spat out in a place where memory had lost its significance. Clinging to it would have meant looking back, and none of them could afford that.  Her tiny shack played a fragile melody, luring to her swamp what the world had long rejected.

Their presence permeated the jungle’s labyrinth, bright eyes in a green-hued darkness that foretold the invaders, long before the soft splashing of oars revealed their arrival. White folks rarely came to see her. Those that did were outlaws, pirates and smugglers who had no one else to turn to and whose love for life surpassed their loathing of the other. Black souls dwelling in black magic usually didn’t mind the latter being performed by a black woman. Those sitting in the boat, however, stood out against the backdrop of the bayou. The birds silenced at their sight, and even the fog seemed to step back a little, that it might get a better look at the invaders.

There were three men in a tiny rowboat, two whites accompanied by an African who appeared to be leading the way. He looked scared but resolved, his gaze steely, as if freedom hadn’t been taken from him, yet. She immediately sensed he wasn’t a slave to the man sitting behind him, a young European of dark complexion. With his tricorn-hat and the black ribbon tying back his hair, he would have looked elegant, almost sophisticated.  His clothes, however, told a different story; ragged they were, covered with dirt and torn in some places, as if someone had tried to rip them from his body.

Next to him sat another man, a little older, brilliant blue eyes glaring out from a grim face.  He rested his arm on the rail behind his younger companion in an almost protective gesture, and from his rigid posture, she could tell he disagreed with the venture.

She gave herself over to the melody, rocking her body in the rhythm of the syllables until she could hear a song, clear and pure like spring water, the beginning she’d so desperately sought but never found.

And suddenly, it was over. The African’s forehead touched the planks, shimmering wet from mist and rain, and his hand reached out for the hem of her skirts.

“ _Yemanja_.”

A whisper, echoing in halls so ancient it reached her as a prayer chanted by a million voices. A door opened wide and a thundering voice began calling out names.

 _Mami Wata and Lasirène, Tingoi and Calypso …_

It went on forever, each name a knife to her skin. Just when she thought she could bear no more, the water came to her rescue. It crashed through the door and the windows, burst forth from the marble tiles and washed across her tortured body.

 _Oh blissful memories, oh powerful wisdom held within its fleeting grasp._

She screamed, stumbling backwards against one of the shack’s wooden stilts.  Leaning back, she closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to fade, while her mind adapted to a revelation so unfathomable it shook the ocean to its depths. When she opened them again, the wisdom of ages had replaced a fay’s wondrous knowledge. With a queen’s air, she stepped forward, approaching her saviour who lay prostrate on the floor, shaking.

“Thank you,” she whispered regally. When she leaned down to touch his shoulder, he remained still, waiting silently while the mist reclaimed its rightful place.

“Leave the man.” A voice broke the spell. “It’s me what’s looking for you, love.”

Though his friend tried to hold him back, the ragged man stepped from the boat with all the possessive arrogance of Cortez himself. The planks creaked under his bare feet, his ankles bruised by shackle-marks.

“Dat I know. D’is not him dat reeks of guilt and shame.”

She reached out to touch his face but he shrugged away, disgusted and appalled.  “Ah …,” she grinned, revealing her blackened teeth. “Him fears him skin soiled by dese hands. But see, him shirt already torn.” Catching him by surprise, she pulled at a torn patch, revealing pale skin.

“Put yer dirty hands off him!” Unable to see his Captain degraded in such an insolent manner, his companion jumped up and pulled his sword, almost falling into the swamp with the boat’s agitated sway. “Why don’t ye –?“

Smiling contently, she watched the African leap at him, pushing him back into the boat while seizing his sword with unexpected elegance. He was serving the goddess, no doubt, but his opponent would have none of it.

“Ye-,” He reached for his pistol, when a voice interrupted him.

“Wait, Bill. No use in starting a fight here.”

“But Jack –“

So it was _Jack_ , then. A common name, without fate-laden implications. Still, she knew there was more to it than just that. His destiny was in motion, whirling and spiralling in the most vivid of colours, and she expected a new name to spring forth from the chaos. A great name, a name to be remembered; _he_ would accept nothing less.

He possessed the air of an aristocrat, an arrogance that was evident in the way he raised his hand, silencing the man who had stood up for him.

“M’lady-” The word sounded like an insult, coming from his lips. “Considering the situation, I fear I may have made a lamentable mistake. You see, this negro –” He pointed to the African who watched him, fear-stricken, “- led us here, claiming we would meet someone able to help with a problem of mine that needs immediate solving. Alas, seeing that there is no possible way he could have known what to expect here, I must call myself foolish for following his advice. I apologize for stealing your precious time, since – no doubt – you are a very busy woman.”

He took a bow and pulled off his hat in a fluid sweep, pressing it to his chest. There was great drama in his words and gestures, revealing an inborn actor, but she knew they hid a deeper unease. She allowed him to end his performance, but before he could step back into the boat, she seized his sleeve, enjoying his bewilderment.

“I know what you are here for! De ship …”

“You’re wrong, love,” he replied hastily, freeing himself and wiping an invisible stain from his shirt. “I already got my ship back.”

“ …full o’people, hidden in de bay.”  She smiled knowingly and her opponent immediately stiffened.  “One hundred souls for a traitor’s soiled essence. Dat I call generosity. Or maybe foolishness?”

His eyes found hers, wide open and, suddenly, the book turned its pages.

She thought then that some part of her had left her body, to travel across the water, _homewards, homewards_ , until it reached the familiar coast, the rivers and fountains, dark inlets and clear wells. She took a deep breath, but the air tasted bleak and threatening, burning her lungs and piercing her heart. _Oh yes_ , she knew now why they were here, what the man had done, and when she looked at him, she felt overcome by an emotion all too human for her newly discovered state: Disdain.

In her sleepless nights, when she searched for a shape in the smoke of burning incense, she had often wished to meet them eye to eye; those who were responsible for the misery and hardship ever-present in the faces of the bayou’s mournful dwellers. How similar their predators were, how transparent in their mindless desire to consume, to possess, to swallow what no man should own. She knew of a man who had watched his son beaten to death, had seen a woman with her ears severed and children die from grief over lives never lived. There was no comfort to be offered, no compensation to be paid, but part of her belonged with the beaten and the bound, and she had granted them all the shelter her own prison could provide.

And now this man dared to invade her realm, bearing the marks of entrapment, yet carrying the stench of greed and selfishness. She tried to see his path, determined if he would walk down the road that had led him to her swamp or flee the consequences and change back into a faceless marionette. His fate couldn’t possibly be without meaning, nothing that happened on this day ever could, but his eyes were only darkness, and destiny a path he wouldn’t follow.

Slowly, a smile spread across her features. After all these years, hope had finally returned, loosening her shackles by binding another’s life.

“You,” she said, pointing to Jack, “stay wit’ me.”

“NO!” Again, the protest came from the man she’d heard him call Bill.

“What for?”

She giggled a little, placing a finger to his chest. “Talk business.”

The African said something in his own language and stepped back, his fingers performing a dance designed to convey awe and deference.

“You don’t even know my request,” Jack interjected.

She did not reply, only reached out to run her fingers across the back of his hand. This time, he didn’t draw back.

“Jack!” Bill cried, ignoring Captain’s orders and jumping onto the small bridge. “Ye cannot stay, mate! Just look at ye! Ye’re still weak and yer injuries need –“

“I don’t bloody need you to tell me what I need!” The loss of composure almost turned him into a different person. His mask had slipped a little, revealing a man desperate enough to believe in the devil himself, sell his soul and follow a black man’s ramblings about a priestess living in a hidden bayou.

 _Oh yes, she would help him, poor, unknowing fool._

“But Jack! Ye cannot stay here! Look at her, haven’t ye seen what she is?”

The question almost amused her. Minutes ago, she wouldn’t have been able to provide an answer herself, but the world had turned upside down, the mirrors were broken and soon they would all pray they’d never known her.

The men got into an argument, but she was too bored to follow. She already knew everything she needed to know, including the choice that was already made.

“I’ll let you know when to come back and pick me up,” Jack finally said with regained composure and she could see that his friend knew him well enough to realize the game was lost.

“I haven’t seen a boat,” he stated half-heartedly.

“De news travel fast here,” she answered, knowing they felt the gaze of the jungle, more than a hundred eyes watching their every move.

Bill swallowed hard, but the look his Captain gave him tolerated no dissent. In one quick movement, he seized the forgotten sword from the African’s hand, then grabbed his sleeve and pushed him into the rowboat. 

They were swallowed by the mist before the rhythmic splashing of the oars had died away.

*~*

Silence had reclaimed its rightful place, but it was of a different kind now. There were no inaudible whispers, no questions she failed to answer, only the peaceful lapping of the waves eagerly requesting her mastery to return. Her companion too seemed to sense something, for he didn’t speak or move. She watched him curiously, but the expression on his face was inscrutable, challenging her all-knowing gaze.

“What is your name?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Ah, I have many names.” She let out a quiet laugh, marvelling in his confusion. “But ye may call me Tia Dalma.”

“A strange name, but I suppose it’ll do. If I may introduce myself, my name –“

“Your name is of little consequence. At de moment, dat is.” At her words, his expression grew painful, revealing she had touched a wound still too raw for the healing. _Ah_ , to steal another’s life, make his submission so complete even his name would lose its meaning. Never again would there be an admiring spark to the voice of those recalling it, no soft breath on a lover’s lips in the throes of passion.

Wordlessly, she took his hand and led him inside. Two rainbow pythons wound around a splintered coat stand, shimmering bodies illuminated by candlelight, but their presence didn’t seem to trouble him. Only the sight of a lazy iguana resting on a small drawer made him momentarily blink and she heard him murmur “interesting” before he headed further into the smoke-filled cabin.    




Gesturing towards a narrow chair, she urged him take a seat while she fetched two mugs and a bottle from a shelf. She poured him a generous amount of golden liquid, and then sat down opposite to him. He eyed the brew suspiciously and wrinkled his nose, apparently undecided whether or not he could dare to reject her offer. Finally, the polite Englishman won out and he took a tiny nip from the mug. Judging from the way his lips curled, he wasn’t used to the alcoholic strength of the rum she’d served him, yet managed a smile when he caught her gaze.

“Now about the business-,” he began, sounding uncomfortable.

“De business,” she echoed. “You seem obsessed wit’ dat.”

“Well, the matter is somewhat pressing and you still haven’t –“

“Still haven’t told you what t’do wit’ your _cargo_? Ah, but see, you had all de way from Africa to think ‘bout de matter. So why not take our time and have a li’l chat?”

“Chat?” Dumbfounded, he reached for his mug and took another sip, considerably bigger than the first one. She could almost feel the rum burning down his throat, but this time, he didn’t flinch. “You made me stay for a _chat_?”

“D’was about time,” she smiled, fingers reaching across the table to brush his wrist. With a quick movement, she pulled his sleeve up, revealing bruises that could hardly be mistaken for anything other than shackle marks. Her gaze travelled across the angry red calluses and finally came to rest upon the fresh brand marring his forearm. “A pirate, eh?”

“I am not!” He was breathing hard, his eyes bright with rum and fever. “It was a conspiracy … they betrayed me!”

Though she tried to fight it, she felt a bond forming between them, born of loss and treason. Once, she had allowed a human into her heart, had allowed herself to love, only to find her nature worked against it; the memory was back with her now, accompanied by the seed of power and the almost overpowering desire for vengeance. Yet, she felt strangely drawn to the human sitting across the table, unable to shake off the secret longing for companionship in an existence made of solitude.

Quietly, she nodded. “Den it is betrayal dat shaped us both.”

Suddenly, his face was close, far too close, and before she knew what was happening, her lips brushed against his, chapped and salty, sweetened only by the rum she’d served him. It was a taste she remembered well, the gift of freedom she had granted, yet been denied herself. When she pulled away, he gave her a questioning look, surprised, but not appalled. A quiet nod, and suddenly, his hands tangled in her hair, drawing her to him while his mouth pressed to hers in an attempt to quell a feeling she knew all too well: desperation.

They both stumbled to their feet, breathless, and within moments, he was lingering above her. He urged her backwards, against the creaking table and kissed her again, open-mouthed and rough. This shouldn’t be happening, not with him, not after all he’d done, but destiny had joined forces with her body, treacherous in its human form, and she couldn’t help but accept his lead. His hands travelled lower, seizing her dress and she felt him slip the material from her shoulders to reveal her bosom. He stepped back a little and stared at her, the hunger in his eyes sending shivers down her spine.

There could be no doubt she wasn’t the first black woman to share his bed. She could almost see them, ebony skinned girls with their eyes bashfully cast to the ground. More likely than not, they had been a gift from a native slave trader, offered to him in the fuggy huts of Anamaboe or Elmina.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

Several moments passed until he caught the message and let go of her, astonishment written all over his face. “So,” he breathed, “this is not what you brought me here for?” The mockery in his voice failed to hide the hurt behind his words.

Stifling a laugh, she pulled up her dress and leaned back against the table. “You think _dis_ is wat I want from you?”

“I –,” he began, but was silenced when her hand crept inside his shirt, pulling out a necklace. _Oh yes_ , so she had been right, after all. Almost tenderly, she weighed the trinket in her hand, studying the woman’s face it pictured.

“Beautiful,” she whispered. Her fingers closed around the heavy silver, and with one quick jolt, she’d ripped off the necklace.

“What –?”

“Payment.” She grinned at him, playfully hiding the necklace behind her back.

Understanding dawned across his features and she was amused to find she’d actually managed to shock him. “So you’re a whore.”

She laughed out loud, scaring the iguana which jumped from its seat on the drawer and walked away angrily. “Payment for de service you demanded,” she said after she had calmed a little. “Remember? Tomorrow, de friend of yours will return and you may bring de people.”

Her decision was made, and it had been easier than she would have expected. Her senses, sharpened by the memories, hadn’t failed her. _He_ was part of the plan, destiny’s herald carrying the first piece to a mosaic only time could finish.

“You will hide them?” he asked hopefully.

“I won’t hide your sins from you. But I’ll give them a place you can come back and visit.”

She grinned, dangling the necklace in front of his eyes. He knew the choice didn’t exist, yet pretended to make it.

“The medallion,” he finally said, swallowing hard. “It was my mother’s.”

She nodded. “My thanks are wit’ her.” Her fingers caressed the silver face until a melody penetrated her very being, soft and woeful; with it, the sadness returned, fuelled by shattered hopes and unfulfilled promises.

“Are you alright?” His voice was like a piece of driftwood in an ocean that threatened to drown her. She reached for it, blindly following his lead until she found herself seated on a chair, holding a mug filled with rum.

“Who – what are you?” He looked at her intently, eyes full of questions he would need to answer for himself when time came.

“You will know me one day,” she simply stated. “When you’ve come to know yourself.” 

He watched her curiously, but didn’t ask again. With a smile gracing her features, she got up and took his hand.

“Come,” she said. “We still have unfinished business …”

“I thought, you –,” he began, but was silenced by her finger pressed to his lips. She led him to a door hidden by a vine that had grown its way all through the shack and around the doorframe. Behind it lay the small chamber that served as her bedroom, containing nothing but a wooden bedstead and a table. She lit two candles, then bade him come in. He seemed insecure now, almost like a boy, and she wondered about his age. Hardly older than twenty-five, she mused, raised in a world where women rarely ever took the lead.

There was something akin to fear in his eyes when she opened her bodice and let her skirts fall to the dusty floor, shedding her clothes until she stood before him, naked.

“And now?” she smiled expectantly.

“I … you …,” he stammered, but suddenly, his eyes grew hard. “I don’t trust you! There is a price to this, am I right?”

“Isn’t there always?” She stepped towards him and brought her hands beneath his shirt, feeling heated skin. He gasped at the contact, only too ready to be touched, and she chuckled in thinly veiled amusement.

With practiced hands, she helped him take his shirt off, already attending to his belt when he said: “In Africa, there are tales about water spirits.”  She loosened his trousers and pulled them over his hips. “They demand their lovers to be faithful. Give a man everything he wants, but steal his heart.”

“Not your heart,” she replied, studying his naked body. “Devotion. A sacrifice to de gods.”

She leapt at him, a gazelle turned leopard, pushing him to the mattress. When skilful hands bound him to the bed posts, he didn’t struggle. His eyes were closed, a strange smile on his face at odds with his prey-like state. Instead of fear or anguish, she found relief, resignation to a fate he seemed to have expected. Her fingers wandered to his throat, his pulse warm against her skin, and for a short moment, she savoured the feeling of power. His body was young and well-muscled, an unmarred beauty destiny would sacrifice, and she almost mourned its loss.

Jack groaned when she straddled him and she smiled at his eagerness. Her hands travelled across his body, finally taking him inside, and it was then he opened his eyes, an expression of wonder on his face. The air was thick with smoke and incense, and in the bayou’s muggy heat, their bodies were soon silken with sweat. When she cupped his face, running her thumb across his lower lip, he turned his head to kiss her skin. Bending down, she sought his mouth, dreading the memories, yet unable to resist.

It was wind and water, the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves, while the ocean repeated its age-old promise of unrelenting freedom. But beneath the sea’s shimmering surface lay another truth, painful in its clarity. Part of this was his and only his, the gift of humanity that had grown to be her curse. She momentarily stilled her movements while her hands reached below the mattress; the dagger flashed gold, and upon its handle were rainbow fragments of glass, mirrors reflecting the candlelight. The expression on his face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on the weapon, yet he made no attempt to free himself. His hips came up to meet hers when she brought the blade to his chest, cold metal touching sweat-slick skin.

“I could kill you,” she whispered.

“Why don’t you?” There was a challenge to his words she couldn’t grasp, a part of him her powers wouldn’t reach.

“Wouldn’t dat be a waste? After you have already sold your soul to de devil so you might live.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “You don’t know everything, after all.”

He gasped when she drew the blade away, leaving the blood to mix with the sweat on his skin. She bent over to brush her lips across the wound, savouring the metallic tang of blood; a taste of life it was, sprung from the edge of death, the sacrifice demanded, yet barely more than the prelude to one still to be made. His hips bucked, and an inarticulate sound was torn from his throat, and then it was over.

No word was spoken between them while she freed his wrists, not even a muttered “good night” when he curled up beside her. He fell asleep in an instant and she couldn’t help but think that maybe, he hadn’t slept for some time. She watched him for a while, the fallen prince with a pirate’s mark on his skin. When she touched the brand, he stirred in his sleep, extending his arm to embrace her. She granted him the favour, but when she lay there with her back pressed to his chest, she couldn’t bare the sensation. _Oh yes_ , he’d return to her over and over again, but in his heart, he’d always long for something else, something she could never give. Her eyes followed the candlelight across the sheets, and for a second, she wished that despite everything, she could be human.

With a sigh, she sat up and bent over his sleeping form. Displaying a tenderness he’d never witness, she brushed a rebellious strand from his face and began braiding his hair.  


End file.
